


Abuse

by Pastel_Teacups



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drug Use, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 00:39:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1206430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pastel_Teacups/pseuds/Pastel_Teacups
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan thought Montparnasse would get better, though he couldn't have been more wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abuse

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please, please read the tags! This work has an abusive relationship, non-con, and vague drug use!

Jehan wasn’t scared. 

No, he wasn’t, because he knew it would never happen again.

Montparnasse had just gotten angry, and he was drunk and probably a bit high, and so he hit the nearest thing available: Jehan. 

He’d apologized profusely in the morning when he caught sight of Jehan’s terribly bruised eye. He’d explained that he had too much to drink that night and that Babet was frustrating him, and when he came home, Jehan just upset him even more.

So no, Jehan wasn’t scared. 

However, when he walked into the Musain, black eye and all, everyone else was concerned. 

“Jehan, what the hell happened to you?” Combeferre asked, looking up with concern evident on his face. 

The man in question set down his bag, shrugging out of his coat. “Hm? Oh, right. I just got into an accident.” 

“An accident?” Grantaire asked skeptically, standing and walking over to the poet.

“Yes. It’s actually quite embarrassing. I slipped in the shower and hit my eye on the corner of the shelf.”

As he said this, Grantaire approached him and lifted his chin to inspect his eye, shaking his head. 

“You know, it kind of looks like somebody punched you.” 

Jehan laughed, turning away with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Oh, don’t be silly.” 

Grantaire leaned back, suddenly feeling suspicious. “No, it really does. I box, Jehan. I’ve seen a fist-to-the-face black eye, and I’ve seen a tripped-in-the-shower black eye. Bahorel, come look at this.”

Raising his voice, the artist retrieved the attention of the boxer behind the bar, who sauntered over. 

He took one look at Jehan, squinted, and then leaned back. “J, have you started a fight club, or did you get into a scuffle at the kitten store?” 

“Don’t be silly.” Jehan repeated swiftly, tugging nervously at the sleeve of his light blue sweater. 

“Well, somebody hit you.” Grantaire concluded, taking a swig of his beer. 

“Somebody hit you?” Eponine asked, appearing as if out of thin air. “Who? Was it Montparnasse? That bastard, I’ll kill him.” 

Eponine and Mont had dated, once. She ended it after a very loud screaming match that she raved about to the others the day after. 

“No, of course not. You’re all crazy.”

Jehan shook his head softly, sitting down in an empty chair beside Joly, who was engaged in quiet conversation with Bossuet and Musichetta, all three holding hands across the table. Joly looked scared, and Jehan vaguely thought they must be talking about him, trying to calm him. It always worked, so Jehan didn’t interrupt.

Joly finally nodded at them and closed his eyes, before letting them open and move to the small poet beside him. After a composing moment, he spoke up. “Who hit you?” 

“Nobody hit me.” He replied, picking up a beer. Bossuet’s hand stopped him, looking suspicious. 

“You don’t drink.”

“I’m having a beer.” Jehan said firmly, suddenly irritated by his friend’s concerns. 

Bossuet pulled back, still looking hesitant. Musichetta gripped his hand under the table.

Courfeyrac walked into the Musain’s back room, swearing and shaking the rain out of his dark hair. It’d started pouring on his way over, and he had no option but to run the rest of the way in the rain. 

He caught sight of Jehan, and his battered eye, but didn’t have time to ask. Enjolras started the meeting as soon as Courfeyrac had sat down. 

They all sat through the meeting, quiet panic itching in the back of Jehan’s mind whenever a worried glance found its way to him, which was often. 

After Combeferre drew the meeting to a close(because if he didn’t, nobody would), they all stood, talking and bustling as they gathered their things, and Courfeyrac made a beeline for Jehan.

“Hey, Jehan.” He said nonchalantly, not wanting to scare the poet off. “What happened to your eye?”

“I slipped.” He replied plainly, gathering his things and walking outside, checking his phone. 

“Sorry to hear that,” The brunette replied. The heavy rain had passed, leaving only a slight drizzle and wet concrete. “Do you need a ride? It’s cold out. I could call you a cab.”

Jehan shook his head, tucking a piece of blonde hair back into its braid. “Mont’s coming to get me.” 

Combeferre lingered behind, taking Jehan’s place beside Courfeyrac as Montparnasse’s motorcycle pulled up. 

“Don’t watch.” Combeferre suggested gently, water droplets on his glasses. 

But Courfeyrac couldn’t look away. 

Jehan stepped up to the bike, waiting for the man to remove his helmet and offer it to him. 

The small poet smiled, kissing the man softly before clambering onto the bike and settling close to his boyfriend, arms around his middle. 

Montparnasse was a tall, lithe man, with dark hair and expensive clothes. Nobody knew quite what he did for a living, considering Jehan had a strict don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy when it came to Mont’s job. However, they all knew whatever it was wasn’t exactly legal. Eponine claimed that it was a combination of drug dealing, murder, and scamming. But even she wasn’t certain. Though they all knew that on occasion when the group was at a party, Jehan often showed up quite elevated and smelling of some drug or another. He never did them outside of social gatherings, and Grantaire assumed it was to calm his nerves. Jehan didn’t like large, loud groups that weren’t his close friends. He often panicked without the joint, or something else. 

Courfeyrac turned away before he could see the happy couple speed off, wincing. 

“If it helps, you could call me a cab.” Combeferre joked, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. 

The brunette couldn’t help but laugh, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll call one, but I’m not paying.” 

“It hurts that you treat me like I’m not the love of your life.” 

“Position’s already taken.” He replied simply, shrugging his shoulders. 

Combeferre smiled sadly, looking up at him. “I know. I’ll see you next week.” 

They parted ways, and Courfeyrac nodded. “Right.”   
\--  
Jehan pulled the helmet off his head once they were parked outside their building, climbing off of the bike and trying to fix his wind-blown hair, before Montparnasse pulled him close and kissed him deeply, arms tight around his slim waist. 

The poet smiled against his lips, the troubles of the night melting away. His arms came up to rest around Mont’s neck, pulling away after a dizzying moment. 

“Perhaps we should move inside.” He suggested quietly, leaning his head forehead against Montparnasse’s with a sweet smile. 

“Mm. Maybe.” The man replied, taking Jehan’s hand and leading them into their-or rather, Montparnasse’s-flat. 

The young poet pulled off his shoes and set down his bag, the older man coming up behind him. Arms wrapped around his waist, even as Jehan attempted to find his poetry notebook. 

“Mont,” Jehan complained, still smiling. “Don’t you want dinner?” 

“I’d rather have something else.” Montparnasse mumbled against his neck. 

“I don’t feel like it tonight.” He defended softly, trying to pry the arms off of him. 

The man leaned up and pressed his lips to Jehan’s cheek, breathing against him. “Come on, love.” 

Alcohol. Jehan smelled the distinct odor of alcohol on Montparnasse’s lips. “Mont.” He said firmly, putting both hands on the man’s arms. “You’re drunk. We are not going to have sex.” 

Clearly, he was getting upset. “Why not, then?” He asked gruffly, his hand sliding under Jehan’s sweater, fingers running up smooth skin. “You know you want to.” 

“No, I don’t.” He argued, trying to squirm out of the man’s grip. It was mostly fruitless, Mont being as large as he was, but he had to try. “Get off of me, Mont, I’m serious.” 

The man behind him growled and pulled Jehan closer, rolling his hips roughly. “No.” 

The blonde felt a spike of fear, cold and painful. This wasn’t Montparnasse. He’d never treat him like this. This was just a drunk projection of him. 

Jehan lashed out, fingernails digging into the man’s arms. He cursed loudly and let go, leaving Jehan to turn and skitter back. 

“You _slut,_ ” Mont growled, looking up from his bleeding arms at the smaller man.

Jehan ran. 

It wasn’t the best place he could’ve come up with, but it was with a clouded mind that he ran to the bathroom, shutting the door and leaning against it. It didn’t have a lock, and Jehan never asked why. Maybe now he knew. 

After a mere moment, something hit the door hard, making Jehan wince and hold his ground, praying his body weight was enough to keep the door closed until Mont calmed down. 

“Let me in, you whore!” There was another pound at the door, and tears filled the poet’s eyes. This couldn’t be happening to him. It had to be some awful nightmare. He’d wake up in bed with Mont’s arms around him, and he’d forget all about this. 

There was another movement and Jehan was thrown forward. He stumbled before falling over the bathtub and into it, looking up, fright on his face. 

Montparnasse stood over him, anger ignited in his eyes. His hands were curled into fists, and Jehan cowered.   
\--  
“Hello?” Jehan answered the phone normally, though his voice shook. He was sitting in bed, blue sweater rumpled and jeans unbuttoned. 

“Hey, Jean, come over and stare at this painting with me. I need another opinion. I mean, other than my own. Because, as great as it is, it doesn’t combat another person telling me that I’m worthless. Or brilliant. Depending on my mood.” Grantaire’s voice filled his ear. 

The poet felt relieved, but at the same time felt nervousness spike through him. He felt and probably looked awful, and had a limp to explain. And probably more than a few bruises. 

Even still, he had to escape the stifling flat. “Sure. I’ll be there in an hour.” 

He could almost hear Grantaire’s smile. “Good. Don’t be late.” 

Then, he hung up.

Jehan spent at least half of the hour he’d promised to mentally prepare himself, or at least will himself to get up. The next half was spent rifling through his closet, trying to find something to cover the purple bruises across his arms and ribs. 

Eventually, he settled on light jeans and a forgotten sweatshirt that was once Grantaire’s, the dark material stained by paint. It swallowed the small man, but he found comfort by it in this terrible nightmare.  
\--  
When Grantaire opened the door, concern automatically spread over his face. “You look like shit.” 

Jehan forced a small smile, feeling tired. He hadn’t even closed his eyes the entire night. After Montparnasse had gotten what he wanted he stormed out, leaving the poet to stare, shock-still at the wall. “Sorry I don’t meet your standards.” 

Grantaire didn’t laugh, only watched as Jehan moved past him and-oh, god, was that a limp?- sat down on the artist’s sofa. 

“What happened to you?” He asked, sitting down next to the blonde man.

“Hm? Nothing.” Jehan mumbled, tucking his feet under him. He quietly leaned against Grantaire, seeking comfort in his friend. 

“Don’t lie to me, Jehan,” He said, wrapping his arms around the boy. “You look as if you haven’t blinked all night. And you’re all beat up. Tell me what’s wrong.” 

“I just got into a little fight,” Jehan lied, letting his head fall onto R’s chest. As if from far away, he felt a hand come up to run through his unbraided hair, working the tangles out. 

“Where’d someone like you get into a fight this bad?” 

Jehan shrugged softly, closing his eyes. “Just some bar.” 

The hand in his hair stopped moving abruptly. “You don’t drink.” 

Jehan shrugged again, fear spiking through him again. “I was going to see an old friend from school.” 

“In a bar?” The hand resumed, only much slower. His voice sounded skeptical. 

“Some people enjoy recreational drinking.” 

“I know.” 

It was silent for a moment, and the silence both terrified and revived the blonde. 

“Jehan?” Grantaire’s voice sounded loud in the silence. Light flickered through the darkness. 

“Yeah?” 

“You can tell me anything, you know that?” 

In that moment, Jehan considered it. He considered collapsing into his friend and sobbing, considered telling him everything. 

His phone rang. 

He stood up abruptly and dug his phone out of his pocket, looking down at it. 

Montparnasse. A spike of something shot through him. He thought very briefly about ignoring it, but his fingers took action before his mind did. 

“Hello?” He answered, voice audibly shaking. 

“Jean? Oh, thank God. I came home and you weren’t here, where’d you go?”

The poet rubbed his eyes, pacing the room. He didn’t try to conceal his limp now, too intent on his phone call. “Grantaire invited me over. I thought I should get out of the flat for a bit.” 

“Shit, Jehan, I’m . . . I was drunk last night, and I wasn’t thinking. Come home, darling, I went out to get something to eat, we can talk about it.” 

There was a long minute of silence, while Jehan considered it. Grantaire wouldn’t be very pleased. But he and Mont needed to talk, right? 

“Yeah. I’ll be there in a half hour, okay?” 

Montparnasse sounded relieved. “Good. Right, I’ll see you then.”

Jehan hung up the phone, glancing to Grantaire. 

“You are not.” Grantaire said, sitting up. “You haven’t even stared at my painting and told me that I’m brilliant yet!” 

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ll come back to stare at it another day.” Jehan said, shrugging as he pulled on his shoes. 

“Okay, okay. But hey, Eponine’s throwing me a birthday party tomorrow. You can bring Mont, if you want.” 

Jehan nodded softly, distracted. “Of course I’ll be there.” He reassured, already out the door. 

It shut behind him, and Grantaire huffed before standing to make himself a drink.   
\--  
Jehan silently slipped through the door to Montparnasse’s flat, shedding his shoes and glancing around. Part of him wanted to call out for his boyfriend, but another part of him wanted to hide. 

He didn’t get the choice to do either, though, because his boyfriend walked into the front room with a paper cup of apple juice in his hand and looked to Jehan. 

“Jean, bird, thank God you’re here.” He said, offering him the cup. “I was so worried, I thought you’d run off or something.” 

Jehan took the cup with shaking fingers, not quite meeting the man’s eyes. “You couldn’t exactly blame me.” He replied softly, hobbling to the kitchen. There, set out on the table, was a few pastries that Jehan liked along with a pot of coffee. 

Montparnasse paused, shaking his head. “Now, Jehan, you can’t blame me. I was drunk, and you know how I get when I’m like that.” 

Jehan swallowed dryly, taking a sip of his apple juice and sitting down, glossing over his wince with a cough. “Just promise me it won’t happen again.” 

Mont nodded, walking over to Jehan and sitting next to him, putting a hand on his knee. The blonde flinched, but he didn’t remove it. “I promise.” 

Jehan nodded, and again found it in him to smile.   
\--  
“I think it’s good.” Courfeyrac comforted, staring with Grantaire at a quite interesting painting he’d done. 

“I think there’s something going on with Jehan.” The drunk replied, startling Courfeyrac. He turned to look at him, eyes wide. “What do you mean?” 

Grantaire sighed softly, turning to face him. “I don’t know. He was over this morning, and he looked like shit. Not just his eye, either. I could tell he was off.” 

“How could you know?” 

He shrugged, taking a sip of his beer. “He wasn’t happy.” 

Courfeyrac considered again, before leaning against the wall and looking at the painting again. “That’s odd.”   
\--  
Jehan had spent the day on the couch with Montparnasse, simply watching television and talking. Eventually Jehan found the strength to lean against him, and Mont wrapped his arms around him gently. 

“Eponine’s having a party for ‘Taire.” The poet mentioned softly, eyes closed against Mont’s t-shirt.

“Do you want to go?” The man replied, running his fingers through his blonde hair. 

“Yeah, but there’ll be people there.” 

“I can give you something for that.” He comforted, rubbing soothing circles over his back. 

Jehan nodded, closing his eyes. “Okay.” 

And with that, he fell asleep, his body curled against Montparnasse tightly.   
\--  
When Jehan and Montparnasse arrived at Eponine’s flat the next day, Jehan’s eyes were dilated, and he was touchier than he usually was. 

“What’s he on?” Courfeyrac asked glumly, watching as Jehan cornered Marius, stroking his brown hair with wide green eyes. 

“LSD. It’s his party drug.” Grantaire filled in, taking a long pull of his bottle. “He says it keeps up the good mood.” 

Courfeyrac watched as Jehan kissed a very ruffled-looking Marius on both cheeks, before releasing him to scurry off as he floated away. “Mont gave him that? Isn’t he worried?” 

The birthday boy shook his head. “No. Jehan’s only ever had a bad reaction to it once, but now Mont stays sober when Jehan does stuff like this.” 

Courfeyrac nodded softly. At least that was good. 

The poet moved to them next, smiling blearily and taking Grantaire’s face in his hands. He still had a bit of a limp, and his eye was only a bit better. Courfeyrac opened his mouth to ask what had happened, but Jehan suddenly started speaking. 

“Happy birthday, Grantaire. You’re absolutely brilliant, love. Don’t let anybody tell you otherwise.” He said to the man, his smile only growing when Grantaire raised an eyebrow. Then, Jehan leaned forward and gave the disgruntled man a sloppy kiss on the lips. 

He pulled away with a giggle and limped to Courfeyrac, running long fingers through his brunette curls. 

“And you,” Jehan said, his face too close to Courfeyrac’s. He could smell Jehan’s breath, which somehow smelt both of honey and alcohol. “You’re just beautiful. You’re beautiful, and smart, and sometimes you look sad, and I want to know why.” 

He gave Courfeyrac a long kiss, one that didn’t feel nearly as sloppy as Grantaire’s. 

Courfeyrac put his hands on the man’s sides, trying to pull him away, but his lips were so soft and perfect, he couldn’t help but fall into them. 

Then, Grantaire took a firm hold on Jehan’s braid and unceremoniously tugged. 

The smaller man broke the kiss to yelp, stumbling back. “What the fuck, ‘Taire?”

He shrugged in response, tipping his head back to accommodate his rapidly emptying beer. “Wouldn’t your boyfriend be upset if you were kissing someone else?” 

Jehan appeared to fall in love all over again. 

“My _boyfriend,_ ” He said, as if remembering. “Oh, where is he? I must go see him.” 

He turned on his heel, only to see Montparnasse leaned against the wall, watching. 

Courfeyrac winced. 

Jehan, who apparently hadn’t noticed what sort of trouble he was in, bounded over to Mont and wrapped his thin arms around his neck, smiling serenely. 

“Oh, Mont, I missed you. So much. Where did you go?” He said, kissing the corner of the man’s lips. 

He seemed angry, though Jehan didn’t know why. “Come on, we’ve gotta go.” 

Jehan pouted, pressing himself closer to him. “Oh, but why?” 

“Because it’s time to go.”

Jehan sighed reluctantly, nodding. “Can I at least say goodbye?” 

Montparnasse looked reluctant himself, but finally consented. “Just be at the door when you’re done.” 

Jehan smiled brightly and kissed his cheek, before not-so-gracefully moving to Courfeyrac and Grantaire. He kissed their cheeks, apologized for not being able to watch Grantaire blow out the candles on his cake, and told Courfeyrac to never stop being beautiful. Then, he swept over to his other friends. 

He kissed Enjolras and Combeferre on the mouth, mumbling nice things to the both of them. He kissed Bossuet and Musichetta, too, but was much more careful with Joly, kissing his forehead and ruffling his hair. He smiled to Eponine and ruffled her hair, and all but sucked faces with Bahorel, who jokingly wrapped his arms about his waist and pulled him closer. Then, he joined Montparnasse at the door and left, the hold on his arm deceptively tight.   
\--  
“Ow, Mont, you’re hurting me,” Jehan whined as he was marched into their flat. 

Without a word, he’s thrown to the floor by Montparnasse’s impressive strength. He gasped, sitting up. “Mont?” 

“Who the hell do you think you are?” He growled, standing over Jehan. “You think you can just kiss and touch whoever you fucking want?” 

Jehan skittered back until he hit the wall, looking up at the man. “No, Mont, those are just my friends, I like them!” 

“Right.” He scoffed, pulling the man up and slamming him against the wall. “Whore like you can’t keep his hands to himself, can he?” 

Jehan felt tears rising to his eyes and closed them, feeling a punch square in the jaw. He let out a cry, and Montparnasse slapped him. Then, with a grunt, he spun Jehan around and pushed him against the wall, arms reaching around the poet’s waist to unbutton his pants, tugging them down as tears streamed down Jehan’s face.   
\--  
“Jehan? What the hell happened to you?” Courfeyrac asked, stopping Jehan outside the Musain, where he was waiting to corner him. Jehan’s condition had only worsened over time, and everybody was concerned. He’d grown paler and paler, and every week he had a new injury. And, constantly, a limp. Soon enough, they’d drawn their own conclusions.

But they couldn’t be right. Courfeyrac dearly hoped they weren’t right. 

Jehan feigned a smile and shook his head dismissively, tucking back a piece of hair behind his ear. He’d been braiding it less and less lately, and today it was in a messy bun low on his head. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

His eyes were sad. It made Courfeyrac’s heart sink. “Don’t lie to me, Jehan. Everybody’s worried about you, and you’re not giving us any answers. I want to know what’s going on.” 

Jehan tried to move past him into the Musain, but Courfeyrac stepped in front of the door, effectively blocking him. 

“Let me through.” The smaller man demanded, not meeting his eyes. 

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.” 

Something in Jehan’s eyes hardened, as did his voice. “I don’t have to tell you anything. Goodbye.” 

With that, he turned and hobbled away, ignoring Courfeyrac’s voice calling after him.   
\--  
“Where’s Jehan?” Grantaire asked the minute Courfeyrac stepped in, looking hopeful. 

The brunette shook his head, picking up a beer. “He left. He wouldn’t tell me anything.”   
\--  
“M-Mont, you’re home early.” 

“Right. I am. Where the hell have you been?” 

“I went to the Musain, but-” 

“Damn it, Jehan, I told you I don’t want you hanging out with those people.” 

“Those people are my friends.” Jehan said, curling himself tightly in a ball. 

“And why aren’t you there tonight?” Montparnasse asked harshly, stepping closer to the couch, where Jehan was cowering. 

“Just let me be.” 

Suddenly Mont’s there, hands encircling the man’s thin wrists and holding him down. 

“Mont, no, stop, I-”   
\--  
“Alright, enough.” Grantaire said the moment Jehan answered the phone, voice insistent. “You’re gonna tell me what the hell’s going on and you’re going to tell me the damn truth.” 

Suddenly, Jehan burst into tears, and Grantaire panicked. “Oh, shit, Jehan, what? I’m coming over, okay? I’ll be there in a few. Don’t go anywhere.”   
\--  
Grantaire pounded on the door of Montparnasse’s flat, panicking even more so than he already was as the minutes passed. “J? Jehan, open the door.” 

A long moment passed, and then there was a click. The door opened just wide enough for the artist to get through, before closing again. 

And there Jehan was, limping terribly. He had a cut on his hairline, and dried blood lingered there. His blonde hair was an absolute mess, and tears streaked down his face. 

Grantaire only took a second to react, dropping his coat and kicking off his shoes. “Where’s your first aid kit?”

Jehan sniffled, glancing at the door every few seconds. “It-It’s in the bathroom.” 

Grantaire rushed out of the room and then returned, guiding Jehan to the couch. “It was Mont, wasn’t it?” 

Jehan stared forward, nodding. “I thought he’d get better, I thought-” He collapsed into tears again. “I’m so sorry.” 

“No, this isn’t your fault. Jehan, listen, you’re gonna be okay.” 

Grantaire cleaned up the cut, deciding he’d let Joly take a look at it. Meanwhile, he found a duffel bag and began frantically throwing clothes into it, finding Jehan’s poetry books and grabbing his pillow off the bed, tossing in his toothbrush and another pair of pants. 

“Come on,” He said, helping the crying man to his feet, draping his own leather jacket around the man’s shoulders. It swallowed him, but Jehan seemed to find some comfort in it. The brunette somehow managed to lead Jehan out of the flat, gather his shoes on his way, and dial Courfeyrac’s number all in one movement. 

“Courf, it’s me. You better be home.”   
\--  
Courfeyrac opened the door not knowing what to expect. Grantaire had told him to call everybody and gather them at his flat, and to get a first aid kit. Everyone had shown up, Joly with his own first aid kit and a worried look on his face, except for Grantaire and Jehan. 

So, when he opened the door, he wasn’t surprised to find Grantaire and-oh no. 

Jehan stood there beside him, a shivering and sniffling mess. He had a cut that Grantaire had tried somewhat to cover, and he stumbled into the flat with an absolutely awful limp. Courfeyrac was sure there were even more injuries, but they were all covered but his sweater and jeans. 

Everybody winced, and Joly helped Jehan into a chair as Enjolras, Combeferre, Marius, and Bahorel flocked to Grantaire. 

“What happened?” 

“Did you find him like that?” 

“Will be be alright?” 

“Who should I kill?” 

Courfeyrac, Fuielly, Eponine, and the others all lingered around Jehan and Joly, mostly listening to Grantaire. 

“It was Parnasse,” Fueilly said softly. 

“That bastard,” Eponine said, kicking the wall sharply. “I knew something like this would happen. That absolute _dick_.” 

“Don’t punch a hole in Courf’s wall, if you would be so kind,” Bossuet said dryly, watching as Joly properly cleaned and bandaged Jehan’s head wound. 

“It’s not that bad,” Joly spoke softly to Jehan, trying for a reassuring smile. “The worst thing that could happen is a headache. Is there anything else?” 

Jehan wiped his watery eyes with his sleeve, nodding. Wordlessly, he tugged his sweater off to reveal countless wounds, cuts and bruises littering his torso. 

There was a collective gasp, and Grantaire watched as Courfeyrac gripped Jehan’s hand, mumbling nothings to the poet as Joly said something about stitches. 

Bahorel nudged Grantaire after the others moved to Jehan’s side, glancing at him. “If you ask me, I think we need to teach that bastard a lesson.”  
\--  
About an hour later, they were all still there, the entire Amis tangled up on the couch around Jehan. The poet felt quite loved as he settled against Courfeyrac’s chest, but something was off. He spoke with a raw voice, most of it lost.

“Where’s Grantaire? And Bossuet?”   
\--  
Two and a half hours after that, both men returned to the flat looking sickeningly pleased with themselves. 

Bahorel sat down at the kitchen table to clean up his bloody knuckles, while Grantaire flopped down on the couch, partially on top of Enjolras. 

“Where were you guys?” Jehan asked quietly, voice muffled by Courfeyrac’s shirt. They were holding hands still, and Grantaire smiled. 

“Just had to take care of a few things. I don’t think Parnasse’ll be bothering you anymore.” 

Enjolras looked up, clearly angered. “We’re going to take legal action, of course.” 

“Of course,” Combeferre said, patting Enjolras’ hair. 

“Good.” The disgruntled leader said, settling back into the cushion. 

It was far from okay, but they were getting there. And for the moment, it wasn’t bad.


End file.
